


Standby

by planetarium



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/F, Jealousy, Oneshot, mild hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetarium/pseuds/planetarium
Summary: For as long as Angie could remember, she’s always been the second choice.or;Angie waits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> vintage girlfriends is my aesthetic forever.  
> unbeta'd, all mistakes mine

If there was one skill Angie mastered by her ripe age, it was the art of waiting. 

 

Angie grew up thinking her name was ‘Frankie’ or ‘Tommy’. Then again, it was always Frankie or Tommy stirring up trouble down the streets. Angie plodded along in their footsteps. She soon learned girls couldn’t fight like boys did, if she did her ma told her off for bruising her face or staining her Sunday dress. 

 

Ma and pa were always invested in her older brothers. She’d almost lost all of them twice. Being the only girl in the Martinelli family was tough. Only Jo would pay her any mind, sneak her out to theatres and add candy to her secret stash. He was the one with the good genes, always with his head in the right place. Married at sixteen and had a baby boy, named him Angelo after Angie. Then the war rolled around and Jo was among the earliest casualties. Sent a letter home telling ma that he got blown to pieces, can’t recover a single thing of his. 

 

When Angie goes back once every two weeks, Jo’s pictures have all been taken down. They don't know where he is anymore. Pa always retreats to his room when Angelo comes to visit with Ellen. He looks like Jo, but he isn’t. 

 

Normally, Angie focuses on each day. Getting by with tips, smiling and exercising infinite patience with customers. Yet, three failed auditions and a week after Frankie’s wedding, Angie’s mind buzzes. It’s got her thinking about old Mr Alexander’s words, that she should give up acting and spend time on math and English. Angie was good at movies, knew everything about them. Maybe it’s time Angie listens to pa and stops fooling herself, resign to a lifetime of stand-ins and last minute replacements— or go and marry Teddy like ma always wanted. Pop out a kid every year, go to church every week, cook, clean. 

 

Then there is Peggy. 

 

Angie’s hurricane. Entering into her life without warning, wrecking everything in its wake. 

 

Peggy has not said a single thing to Angie today, besides an absentminded ‘yes’ or ‘thank you’. Her gaze is fixed on nothing, her tea cold and forgotten. It makes sense now why Peggy finds the radio distasteful, why she has so little to say about him. 

 

It’s one of those days. (Him). Peggy loved him. Loves him. Loves him more. 

 

Angie’s lips thirst for schnapps. Better yet, something stronger. What does English always have? Bourbon or whiskey? 

 

Everybody has their secrets. Some kept to the deathbed and beyond, those which ought to be burnt to ashes. Angie wouldn’t let these things grow in her mind. It’s Frankie’s wedding that triggered it all. Last week he married—Rosie of all gals. Rosie wasn’t a violet. (Violets like Angie didn’t exist). Sure she kissed a good number of fellas and gals, not that she’s keeping count, but the sweethearts she kissed all went skipping back into the arms of their marines and doctors. 

 

Angie can’t forget Frankie’s wide grin and twinkling eyes when Rosie walked toward him in her flowing dress. Frankie’s pals hooted and cheered, as dozens of kids ran about, weaving between the legs of adults. Ma cried and even pa shed a tear or two.  They stood smiling at each other, perfect height distance, so that only Frankie had to dip his head to touch Rosie’s mouth. Nothing like the clumsy bump of noses and teeth, the giggling, long hair getting in the way. 

 

Frankie’s got the arms of a sailor. He lifts Rosie and spins her about in their dance and she laughs. They fill the room. Angie is envious of those arms— muscle so easily built, power. If a fella grabs the wrong place Frankie lands a hard punch. Frankie can lift their kid on his shoulders. Can. Can. Can. 

 

All things Angie can’t do. 

 

Not once did Rosie look her way. 

 

Course she would’ve forgotten about the time they kissed in the chapel. (And the dozen other times when Angie had climbed in from her window, into her bed, and howRosie let her map out her lips and her neck. Asked.) 

 

Then it became obvious to Angie that Frankie was sweet on her. Always blundering and blushing. He said he asked her to the movies one night at dinner, couldn’t stop grinning, said he saved up enough money finally to buy a new car, one of those nice ones from Teddy. Angie helps him fix up the car and sends Rosie off on the arm of her stupidly sweet brother. (Frankie is what Angie could have been). 

 

He takes Rosie to Paris for their honeymoon. (Angie gives him four months rent). Frankie telephones and thanks Angie, says ma wants her to come back for their family dinners “you ain’t come home in weeks!”

Rosie is there with little baby Ruth, who looks like the splitting image of Frankie.

 

Angie doesn’t go. 

 

Peggy sighs. Stares at nothing. 

 

Her hero lost forever.

 

So Angie’s used to it. 

 

Peggy’s got her wrapped around her pinky— Peggy’s gorgeous long legs, how damn ridiculous. Heck, if Peggy asked Angie to cut off her arm, Angie would ask “Both?” Angie shouldn’t because she's been in the palms of other gals before, like Rosie. 

 

So by now Angie doesn’t jump without looking because she remembers it deep in her bones.  

 

But _lord._

 

Was Peggy Carter worth it.

 

The awful thing is, Angie thinks she’d jump for Peggy. Even though she knows she’s gonna land hard and break some bones. (And maybe her neck). Perfect red lips would part, a bare breath of a request, and Angie would scramble up on wobbly feet. Her heart would be begging her not to, cos’ she wouldn’t be able to stand it if Peggy leaves. There’d be nothing left. Peggy Carter enters so effortlessly, and she’ll disappear just as, she will ruin Angie. Jo used to call gals like Peggy the once in a life time loves that break you and change you, so that nothing and no one is ever the same. “How selfish they are!” Jo once said, pacing about Angie’s bedroom. “Doesn’t she know I can never love someone again after what she’s done to me?” 

  
Sometimes Angie hears Peggy whisper his name in her sleep. He owed her a dance after all. Peggy must dance with him every night when she dreams. That or she hears his last words as Captain America vanishes from the face of the earth. 

 

Angie dances with Peggy. Drags her out to dance with some gals back at the Griffith. Even if Peggy’s red lips curve, and she laughs and lets Angie spin her about, veins thrumming with the warmth from bubbly— even when Peggy looks so bold and _alive,_ positively radiant—  vivacious— around Angie- 

 

Peggy is a mystery. 

 

(Not like America’s Hero, who must’ve known everything). 

 

 _Jesus_ , Peggy was _the_ Betty Carver (Peggy Carter— how did she not know before?), _Captain America’s_ girl. 

 

Any fella who could grasp the tiniest piece of Peggy Carter’s heart should be damned to hell. Lucky bastards. 

 

Jo would say it is pathetic to be jealous of a dead man. Angie would say to him that he was a hero,  that he died a hero and will be remembered as a hero, and he had Peggy’s heart. Even a Saint will seethe with jealousy. 

 

Peggy has the world at her feet. (She has the burden on her shoulders). She holds up the sky.  Fights. Is a hero. (Like him). 

 

Angie waits tables and can carry a tune decent. 

 

There’d never be a gal like Peggy. Gals like Peggy come and Angie’s silly heart gives all the love it can muster. 

 

Peggy is power and desire. It must be God’s way of tormenting her sinful thoughts. Pastor Thomas told her to be pure and follow God’s words. Is that why, He has presented Angie with such a woman like Peggy Carter? A strangeness of being within and without, able to see but not _see_ , able to touch but never to hold? So it must be this way. A spinster til death. 

 

Something possesses Angie. 

 

“If he came back.” 

 

Peggy glances towards Angie, with her hands wrapped around a warm mug and legs tucked against Howard’s leather couch. He has a hold on her. He always will. (Angie isn’t good at sharing. Never has been). 

 

“Captain America,” Angie specifies. “You would go to him. Right now. If he walked through the door.”

 

“Angie,” Peggy sounds tired, she manages a weak smile. “He’s gone. You know that.” 

 

Her voice lacks the conviction Angie longs for. What does she want Peggy to say?

 

“I wouldn’t blame ya, English,” 

 

“Angie, I-”

 

 “It’s fine, Pegs.”  Angie says, already moving to the stairs. 

 

Peggy’s expression is unreadable. The faintest trace of hurt is present in her eyes. She is too tired to respond to Angie. Angie wants to have a dramatic outburst. To stay enthusiastic and light. She can’t find it within her. 

 

“Well, night English.” 

 

(And her teacher thinks she’s not dramatic enough). 

 

Angie will get over it. She always does. Like with Marie, Belle, and Rosie— in another time Peggy will be just a name and a face caught in the past at the Griffith with nights spent dancing, slinking across creaky floorboards, lipstick stains on liquor glasses. Peggy Carter will be a name without a face. (She won’t). 

 

Angie flings herself into the bed. She crawls under the blankets without changing and shuts her eyes. Once the day is over, whatever has taken hold of her will pass. Sleep comes quick and her mind grows heavy, until she hears the door opening and soft knocking. 

 

“Hello,”

 

It’s Peggy’s voice. 

 

 “Could we, maybe, talk?” 

 

“I’m tired,” Angie buries deeper into her pillow. “Maybe some other time.” 

 

“Angie darling, please,”

 

It’s the darling. It must be. 

 

“Out with it then, English,” Angie murmurs, turning to face her. 

 

“I…” 

 

How lovely Peggy was still, hair limp and eyes tired. Peggy’s throat bobs in the darkness. Angie’s eyes follow the movement, trace down the elegant column of her neck— to Peggy’s chest, how it rises with the intake of breath. Maybe it’s the darkness that brings about with it the strength for Peggy to continue. 

 

“He’s important to me. He always will be. He’ll always have a part of me. And it’s…” 

 

Angie knows the direction it’s headed. Bless her poor, sorry heart. 

 

Peggy’s hands settle on the bedsheets, smoothing them over. “Not possible for me to pretend it didn’t happen. It’s unreasonable for me to… expect you to be okay with all this or to wait for me to-” 

 

“English,” Angie holds onto Peggy’s wrist to stop her fidgeting. “I’m fine with waitin’. Been waitin’ all of my life.” 

 

The words don’t have her intended effect. Peggy’s brow furrows. 

 

“But, I want you to know, I _need_ you to know,” Peggy touches Angie’s hand, holds her.  Searches for her eyes, holds her gaze. “I don’t think I could live, Angie, if I lost you too.” 

 

“I ain’t no Captain America, Peggy. I don’t need to go out saving the world like you do.” Angie turns her hand, plays with Peggy’s long, slender fingers. Fingers that do dangerous things. (Related to the telephone company, and things that could give Angie’s soul to the devil— a devil, how gladly Angie will burn in hell). 

“And I’d be the luckiest gal alive. You better not go runnin’ out on me either.” 

 

“Angie, you already have all of me.” Peggy says, squeezing. 

 

How Angie’s heart sings, floats, tumbles and rises. Angie is more awake, Peggy even more lovely in the cool light. 

 

“I’m all yours,” Peggy says with kind eyes. “If you will have me.” 

 

Peggy is home. 

 

“Jeez, Pegs, you sure know how to make a gal cry.” 

 

Angie pushes her playfully, feels how solid and warm Peggy is. Imagines a life together— one Peggy promises her with a tentative kiss to her cheek. 

 


End file.
